


and you were happy like an angel

by lanyon



Series: i've got your blood under my fingernails [9]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Community: ccbingo, M/M, Weapons-grade cock-blocking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-11
Updated: 2012-02-11
Packaged: 2017-10-30 23:26:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/337336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanyon/pseuds/lanyon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now Coulson’s not sure what this is. It could be a fact-finding mission but Natasha’s usually much more subtle when it comes to intelligence ops. He’s rather unsettled as he wonders if it’s some sort of warning about treating Barton right or she’ll hurt him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and you were happy like an angel

Next, it’s Natasha. Coulson’s in his office and it’s late enough on a Sunday evening. It’s Super Bowl but Coulson’s not too worried about missing it. It’s one of the few days in the year when he can be relatively certain of getting work done without interruptions.

 

Except for Natasha. She walks in and looks down at him, hands on hips. That’s never a good sign. Sometimes, Coulson thinks she blames him for her assignment as Tony Stark’s assistant but that was all Fury.

 

“What’s going on with you and Clint?”  
  
Coulson’s first thought is that she’s been talking to Darcy. His second thought is that he hopes she’s been talking to Darcy. His mantra of _people talk_ is only slightly more comforting than _people see_ because he wonders what it is that people see.

 

He leans back and taps his pen on the desktop. “We’re friends,” he says, cautiously.

 

It’s clearly not the wrong answer though it does make Natasha raise her eyebrows.  “You and I are friends, Phil,” she says, “but we tend not to have sleepovers. Clint isn’t really the sleepover sort, either.”

 

Now Coulson’s not sure what this is. It could be a fact-finding mission but Natasha’s usually much more subtle when it comes to intelligence ops. He’s rather unsettled as he wonders if it’s some sort of warning about treating Barton right or she’ll hurt him.

 

Natasha frowns down at him. “Shouldn’t you be watching the football?”  
  
Coulson shrugs. “English mother and early exposure to rugby, Natasha. Football doesn’t cut it, you know?” He likes talking to Natasha when she’s not making tacit threats against his person. She requires even fewer words than he does and she’s too subtle to crack her knuckles. He looks down at his pile of requisition forms. “I’d only be watching it for the commercials.”

 

There’s a knock on the door.

 

“Speak of the devil,” says Natasha, a little too brightly.

 

Barton grins. “Were you guys talking about me?” He holds his hand over his heart. “I’m touched.”

 

Natasha taps him on the temple as she walks out past him. “In the head, perhaps. Make sure he doesn’t stay too late, Clint. Tell him I’ll lock him out of all his electronic equipment if he does.”  
  
Coulson is torn between saying _but I’m right here_ and _you wouldn’t dare_ but he knows Agent Romanov. At some point, he gets to his feet but whether it's to see Natasha out or to see Barton in, he's not sure.

“Agent Barton,” he says, worrying at the very edge of the desk with a thumbnail. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”  
  
Barton nods at the television screen in the corner of the office. “Does that work?”  
  
“Yes, but-“  
  
“Great. I’m going to watch the Super Bowl right here. Stark and Banner suck all the fun out of football anyway. It’s all numbers and no fucking violence.” Without further ado, Barton actually kicks off his boots and sits down on the couch that’s pushed up against the wall and generally serves as a file storage area rather than a piece of comfortable furniture. “You know, Stark thinks it’s pretty hilarious that you have a casting couch.” Barton’s eyes are wide and innocent. “But he doesn’t know you like I do.”  
  
That last hits hard. Damn Barton and his precision.

 

Coulson tries to ignore the sound of the television above his head but Barton probably knew this would happen.

 

“Is that ice cream?”

 

Barton pauses, spoon still in his mouth, and says something that’s presumably uncomplimentary and completely inarticulate.

 

“Is that _vanilla_ ice cream?” Coulson’s a little surprised, in truth.

 

 “What?” Barton is clearly affronted which is one of his more charming characteristics, given that it is usually entirely misplaced. He raises his chin and gets that devilish glint in his eyes.  “I promise that my love of vanilla extends only to ice cream.” He pauses. “And maybe coffee. Are you _blushing_?”  
  
“It’s the light,” says Coulson. He is blushing. There’s a smudge of ice cream on Barton’s lower lip and it’s impossible to look away. It’s impossible to stay in his seat, come to that, and Coulson’s halfway across the room before he quite knows what he’s doing. He stops, mid-step, but it’s okay, because Barton’s a mind-reader, who launches himself forward from the couch.  Coulson’s hand is on Barton’s cheek and he’s never done this before. He’s never touched Barton with actual intent. It's a little terrifying.

 

“We shouldn’t-“ he says, his voice shaky and Barton’s only response is a low growl and fingers wrapped around Coulson’s tie.

 

Someone hates him. It’s the only reason for the phone ringing. It’s the special phone, too, the one that usually heralds something like an Armageddon. Barton’s forehead is on Coulson’s shoulder, his whole body shaking with laughter, as Phil picks up.

 

His hand glides around to the back of Clint’s neck and he rubs gently.  
  
“Yes, Deputy Director Hill. We’ll be right there.”  
  
When Barton raises his head, his expression is rueful and the ice cream has vanished from his lip.

 

“What the fuck kind of bad guy interrupts Super Bowl?” he asks, his voice hoarse.

 

“I suppose we’re going to find out,” says Coulson and he refrains from asking Barton to stick the perpetrator full of all arrows, ever.

 

Barton squeezes his hand and lets go quickly before striding towards the door. “Don’t worry, sir. I’ll get in some hits for you.”

 

Damned if that’s not the most romantic thing Phil’s ever heard from Barton’s mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> +Title from The Frames' _Red Chord_.  
>  +Written for Bingo fill, "Feeding/Cooking for each other" (even if Phil didn't get any ice cream).  
> +Don't blame me. Blame feelschat who prompted me with ice-cream. The cock-block was all me, though.


End file.
